


What Thirty Buys

by Cluegirl



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: AU, Crossdressing, M/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-19
Updated: 2010-08-19
Packaged: 2017-10-11 04:17:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/108288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cluegirl/pseuds/Cluegirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charlie Weasley finds a stray and brings it home for all the wrong reasons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Thirty Buys

It was the hands that gave him away. Long-fingered, elegant, despite the garish polish and chipped nails, too big, really, to be the hands of a tiny blonde girl, shivering in the snow. His feet, too, were larger than they ought to be, stuffed into the ragged pink hose, and then into heels tottering-high, and wholly unreasonable for London's icy slush.

He wouldn't have looked twice, really, except for those hands, and his own insatiable curiousity; what would bring a bloke to such an end? Tarted up like a thrupenny banger in a back alley not twenty yards from the Leaky Cauldron, makeup running in London's acidic drizzle while he/she tried to huddle alluringly beneath the streetlight. He couldn't tell whether the boy -- for it was a boy, all bony, square hips and rangy, thin thighs and breasts stuffed to the perfect dimentions under the soaked angora sweater that was too small for those shoulders -- was hoping more for a john, or for a Peeler to come along and show him to a warm night out of the rain in the local poke. But one thing he could tell; the boy wasn't remotely interested in meeting another wizard.

He didn't know how he knew -- call it a flash of sudden insight, if you will. Merlin knows he's only seen the wretch a slight handful of times. Is more familiar with his bastard father's image by way of the Daily Prophet, by far. But this much he knows about Draco Malfoy: he let the werewolf into the school -- he was to blame for the scars across his big brother's face. For the Order's shocking loss. For the closing of the school. For the turning of the tide. He was to blame. All down to him. All of it.

Charlie slipped from the shadows of his doorway to another, watching his prey with the intensity and focus he'd learned from his charges this past three years. What turn of fate has brought the last of the golden Malfoys to this pass? What delightfully sour luck has brought that proud, pointed face to hide beneath a mask of cosmetics instead of porcelain (though each is as bereft of life and emotion and soul as is the other) and to huddle in the filthy damp instead of curl like a well-fed cat at his chosen Master's feet?

The question only distracts him for a few minutes. Ultimately, he doesn't really care what's brought the treacher low; when prey comes into your cave, he has learned, you do not ask its name. And so whether this is the Malfoy brat's last refuge from the aurors, from Harry's wrath, or from his own failure in the Dark Lord's eyes, he does not ask his name -- no point. They both know who he is.

"How much," he asks.

The silver eyes (far too much mascara, glitter tracking down the attic cheekbones, the arching throat, the tight-bound breast,) take him in with cold disinterest. The boy in the too-short dress takes one of the cigarettes he shakes out of the package, lets him light it before answering in a cloud of blue smoke. "Twenty."

It is difficult not to smile. "Twenty. For what?"

The boy shrugs, tosses his hair back. There are too many rings on those large fingers. Another give away. "Whatever you like."

"What about thirty, then?" He asks, already reaching for his pocket, for the promise he gives the patient rage within him, that the scars on his brother's face won't be lonely for long. "What do I get for that?"

There's a flash, a spark, a tiny, delicious fury in those silver eyes when they snap up to his face, as though this guttersnipe-prince has any ghost of pride left to his tattered name. And that single flash of outrage is worth more than a dragon's horde of gold to him. The boy in the too-short dress slinks forward, presses his body, icy and soaked through, close. Winds his wiry arms up around his neck, hanging with an insolent weight and he tilts his pointed chin and conjures a pout from glittered, chilly lips. "You get to buy me a drink," he says, cat-purr and burring silk through the shiver beneath those hungry ribs. "And then you get..."

A kiss.

And even he knows whores don't do that. They don't slip a tongue so sleek and strong it ought to have a barb in up through his startled teeth, they don't stroke it along his tongue as though to make a promise for later, when sweat will replace the drizzling rain, and the tiny cat-noises in the back of the boy's throat will be buzzing along flesh even more turgid and eager. They don't clutch close and hard against their john's robes, and they don't. get. hard.

And he still doesn't know what Draco Malfoy's doing there, pinning his back to the streetlamp and writhing against him as though intent upon climbing into his dragonskin cloak with him. He doesn't know what's brought him this low, and for this handful of seconds, he doesn't care. He winds a hand into the sodden, cornsilk locks, pulls the narrow face away. "Where?" he pants.

The grey eyes flicker to the left. He looks, sees an alley; grimy and reeking of piss, vomit, and trash. And for a moment it's a temptation to see just how much of that stench he could leave on this delicate treacher's corpse. But then he smiles, velvets his claws, and banks his flame. "Don't think so," he says, wrapping a sudden arm around the thin waist, crushing the boy close, grinding his own turgid prick against the bulge distorting the fake leather skirt. He apparates them both to #12 Grimmauld Place while the gasp of protest is still ringing in the back of the boy's throat/eyes/mind.

"What-" Draco gasps, panicked and struggling, staring around the close, dusty darkness as Charlie easily refuses to let him go, "Where-?"

"Thirty," Charlie reminds him, and takes another kiss -- this one sweetened with fear. Does he know this parlour? Charlie wonders, has he been here in some childhood day? Brought along by his mother when velvet robes and silver buckles were still something that could happen to him? It pleases Charlie to believe that in some way the boy recognizes his surroundings, feels shame at his shabbiness in the ancient and venerable shadow. "Still want that drink?" he asks.

Draco shivers, and then he nods. "Yes please." His voice is lower, natural. They're not pretending anymore, and now both prey and predator know it. Charlie keeps hold of one too-large hand while he leads them to the drinks cabinet in the library -- charmed against Fletcher, but open to the rest of the Order. He thinks about making Draco get his own, just to watch the sparks jump between those long fingers with their cheap, silver rings, but he doesn't. He merely fetches out whiskey and brandy, pours one of each, and gives the sodden blond his choice.

He takes the brandy. Of course.

Charlie leads them to the dusty leather sofa, and then spells the fire to life. Draco shivers. It's impossible to tell whether he's more grateful for the liquor or the heat. It pleases the predator in Charlie to offer both, knowing that he will take them away when he's had his fill. Draco takes another deep swig, holds it in his mouth as he slips from the sofa to kneel between Charlie's feet. His fingers are deft on the fastenings of his trousers, sure on the ties of his underclothes, and his small, soft, catlike tongue traces a brandy-sharp burn along Charlie's turgid prick. He winds his talons into the wet, blond hair -- tight, tight, -- presses his length into the burning softness of that treacherous throat.

He'll leave the little hellcat with his too-large hands and his too-high heels and his too-short skirt to the cold reward his actions have earned him, when he's done. When the rage inside him is certain the silver-thin boy has scars enough inside his eyes to match the scars he's left on his brother's face. When he knows the bitch will miss these basic comforts of warmth and booze and human touch all the more.

Then he'll be satisfied he's got his money's worth.  
He lays his head back in the library dust, breathes in the centuries of pureblood pride around him, and comes hard down the boy's throat for the first of many times.


End file.
